


Start Where You Are

by LonePiper



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26557468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonePiper/pseuds/LonePiper
Summary: On the fringes of East City, after a devastating civil war, a broken man looks for the way forward.“You don’t know what these hands have done,” his voices almost cracks, as his heart has done.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Start Where You Are

What does he think he’s doing? How is this, in any way, going to help? Dressed in nondescript worker’s clothes, worn and crumpled, frayed cuffs and scuffed boots; not his usual crisp uniform or dapper civvies; he threads his way along the uneven, narrow walkways.

Between faltering shelters made of discarded materials.

Between homes built by families.

Here, pushed out to the fringe of East City, a community has taken hold.

A people unlike him. They shouldn’t be here.

But their land has been shattered, the people scattered and their culture devastated. Like an old cloth, soiled and discarded, pushed about by forces beyond their control, they have caught up here on the rough ground outside East City. And they have taken hold.

A people unlike him. He shouldn’t be here.

Still he comes. Seeking. Hoping. Desperate to understand and find an answer. Find a way forward.

For them.

For himself.

Convicted by his own thoughts, confused by their resilience. Always carrying the burden of knowing what he has done, and exhausted by not knowing what to do.

A burden that tries to take different forms.

An envelope, stuffed with cash and pushed deep in his pocket. Small denominations, worn notes; the sort of cash that an outcast might trade without drawing unwanted attention. The weight of it beating against him as it tap, tap, taps against his thigh.

He walks until he finds a cleric or an elder woman, fumbles the envelope into their hand with a few muttered words, and then turns and walks away. Walks back to his duty and his search for the way forward.

A well used rucksack, the worn strap drags at his shoulder. It isn’t really that heavy, but it feels impossible to carry. 

His presence isn’t welcome here.

Moving along worn pathways between lean-tos and open fires he draws the inevitable curious gaze. Curious and angry. Why is he here, intruding in their meagre space? They stare at him, and he is the one who looks away in crushing shame.

He imagines them looking and recognising him. Pointing accusing fingers and calling out, not fearfully, but with righteous anger. Crying out the litany of his sins, destroyer of culture, thief of homes, murderer.

If one of them would confront him, smash his head into a brick wall, he would welcome it.

Turning a corner a clear space opens before him. Worn, dusty ground under around a straggling, spreading tree. He stands, looking at the empty space, the rucksack pulling at his shoulder.

Driving by in his powerful saloon, dressed in uniform blue, on roadways overhead and far removed from their ragged existence, he has seen children sitting here. Sitting at the feet of their teacher, old stories shared amongst young lives; learning their ways and the ways of the world they find themselves in. 

Today there is no-one. Dust curls up in the breeze. He shuffles the rucksack across his shoulder, as his thoughts cloud around where to go next.

His breathing shifts as a word is spoken behind him.

“Stranger.”

He feels no challenge in the voice, just wariness. Head bowed, he turns to face the speaker and is transfixed by deep, cardinal red eyes. The gaze of an Ishvalan man, no more than his mid-twenties, holds him.

“Yes?” he replies cautiously.

“What do you want here?”

What does he want? To make amends, find absolution? He can never repay all he has taken from these people. All the contrition he can offer is meaningless; to expect forgiveness, impossible.

“I saw some children here the other day,” he offers, confused by his own explanation. “I thought maybe,” the rucksack tugs off his shoulder and he holds it out as if it is some explanation of its own. “Is this any use?”

The Ishvalan’s arm stretches out to take the bag, and he sees raised, knotted scars twisting across the tanned forearm. He knows those scars, he knows the legacy of burns. As the weight is taken from his hand he lets go the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He watches as the Ishvalan inspects the rucksack and sees it stuffed full of pencils and notebooks, rulers and erasers, coloured pencils and paper. The intense red gaze moves back from the rucksack and its simple contents to search him out. He waits to be justly mocked for his pathetic gesture, to be attacked for his arrogant presumption.

_“Ishvala sees not just the action of the hand, but also the beating of the heart that moves it.” ___

__“What?” he mutters as his black eyes lift to meet the scarlet. He knows this line from the Ishvalan Scripture, but why is it being quoted for him?_ _

__“You don’t know what these hands have done,” his voices almost cracks, as his heart has done._ _

__“You’re right, I don’t know. But Ishvala knows us all,” the Ishvalan says. “And Friend, even I can see you don’t belong where you are,” he smiles as he swings the bag lightly over his shoulder. “But I think you are not so far from finding the way home,” he nods and disappears back into the ramble of shacks._ _

__This isn’t what he expects, what he deserves; these gentle words and a measure of acceptance. The breeze lifts around him, and he feels the cooling across his back where the rucksack had hung._ _

__Gradually he makes his way back, noticing the quiet conversations and the laughter, the smell of cooking meals, the gardens tucked into corners of earth and the decorations on the walls of homes._ _

__They are a people unlike him. And perhaps he shouldn’t be here._ _

__Still he will come. Seeking. Hoping. Ever closer to understanding and finding an answer. Finding a way forward._ _

__For them._ _

__For himself._ _

**Author's Note:**

> I decided I wanted to finish this today. Started this wee thing November 2018 and finially hammered it out today. And it's under 1000 words. Haha. I write the small things. :)
> 
> This is different for me in that Hawkeye doesn't get mentioned at all. Not even as a thought. So I can't tag it royai. Come to think of it, Mustang doesn't get mentioned by name either? What am I thinking? Ah well...
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope it proved a pleasant diversion for you. Any comments or feedback would be hugely welcome.
> 
> The title is from a quote by C.S. Lewis -  
> "You can't go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending."


End file.
